


Borrow From The Devil

by Eisenschrott



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Non-shippy - Freeform, Objectification, Organized Crime, Situational Humiliation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-23
Updated: 2017-09-23
Packaged: 2019-01-04 06:25:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12163314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eisenschrott/pseuds/Eisenschrott
Summary: In order to save his defector son, Veers must strike a bargain with the infamous crime lord of Axxila. Having to wear an ugly and embarrassing skimpy outfit isn't even the worst part of it.





	Borrow From The Devil

**Author's Note:**

> I've been brewing up a Crime Lord Firmus Piett AU for a while and this is my first shot at it. Others might follow, should inspiration strike.
> 
> Title from [_Friend of the Devil_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zfxNe76WUQY) in Robert Hunter's version.

Max Veers stalked down the transport shuttle, off the landing platform, past the queue at the border control; the guard, an Imperial lieutenant with two fully-armored Mandalorians behind her, glanced at his rank bar and let him pass.

He stepped out onto a pier floating on the smelliest canal he’d ever been near to. And he’d thought a river full of dead bodies on Orinda was bad.

The rendezvous point overlooked the water; it was a rusty bench, covered in blaster fire scorch marks, next to a flickering holosign that read _WELCOME TO AXXILA_ in Huttese and Mandalorian letters. No transcription in Aurebesh.

He dodged vendors trying to sell him spicy-smelling food that made his eyes water, just as many prostitutes trying to sell him _alien pussy_ (their own wording in heavily accented Basic), and sat down on a corner of the bench. Half of his ass dangled out on thin air. Garbage and dead animals floated in the slow-streaming brown water. The stench was a combination of latrine and fuel station. The slums of Rikuba City sprawled on the opposite bank of the canal, as appealing as pus on a wound.

The air was sultry, heavy with humidity like in a jungle. He’d been stiffening himself against cold shivers while the transport approached the planet; now his shirt stuck to his back and sweat trickled from under his cap.

Fucking hells. What was he doing here?

“ _Achuta, mesh’la!_ ”

Veers glared up at a curvy Lethan Twi’lek woman who’d just planted her boot on the bench. For a whore she was chastely dressed, in shorts, crop top, and a pink and black headscarf. Unlike most Twi’lek women, whores and not, she hadn’t bothered painting eyebrows on her cheekbones.

“First time on Axxila, stranger?”

“And I hope it’s the last,” Veers replied. It was the agreed passcode, but it was also the truth.

The Twi’lek’s dark eyes widened, a sharp tooth shone at the corner of her lip. It was golden. “With me, stranger. I’m yer tour guide.” She took his hand and lifted him off the bench with one pull. As far as Veers knew, whores didn’t have arms as muscular as if they had been lifting weights for the past few standard years.

She draped an arm around his waist and swaggered through the crowd, leading him back into the spaceport but away from the passenger shuttles area. Sometimes, Veers would catch a sight of stormtroopers; they either didn’t see him or pretended they hadn’t. Just another officer on shore leave stealing away to a secluded place, to get his blaster polished by a tailhead. Situation normal.

The destination was a deserted landing bay. Well, apparently deserted. Veers felt peering eyes on him, behind empty cargo containers, heaps of junk, broken windows in a nearby abandoned hangar. There were no stormtroopers around.

“Boss wants to ask you a final time before we go,” the Twi’lek said. “You sure ‘bout this, greyback?”

No. No, he wasn’t sure. Fuck, this was madness and dishonor. He should haul his sorry greyback arse out of here, now. “Yes.”

The Twi’lek slapped his ass so hard he lurched a step forward. She sprang towards a Sigma-class shuttle and the ramp lowered with a hiss as she approached. Her crop top was backless, held together with a string at the neck and one at the waist; a tattoo of black plumed wings, partly hidden behind the lekku, decorated the woman’s back from shoulder blades to loins. “Come along, stranger, or the bandits will eat you alive!”

Laughter croaked all around Veers. He couldn’t see even one of the bandits, the guards, whoever the fuck they liked to call their thuggish selves. He hurried to follow the woman up the ramp and into the ship cockpit.

The Twi’lek sat down at the pilot seat. A Duros copilot with piercings all over their brow turned to stare at him, their expression unreadable. Then they broke into a lopsided smile. Or the Duros unsettling approximation of it. “Hello, cargo. I’m a friendly girl named Keep Yer Greyback Hands An’ Yer Human Dick Off Me. If you try anythin’ stupid, we’ll dump you outta the airlock. There’s seats in the passenger area, go buckle up.” She turned to the Twi’lek. “Ready to go, cap’n.”

“Go where?” hissed Veers.

The floor thrummed as the ship’s engine revved up. Veers watched the Twi’lek’s red hands and the Duros’ blue ones dance on the flight console. “Where the hells are we going?” The ship took off and he bumped backwards against the cockpit door. “This wasn’t part of the deal!”

“Told ya to go buckle up, cargo,” said the Duros. “Sis, can I stun him?”

“Nah, boss said _that_ wasn’t part of the deal.”

The Duros growled.

Greyish clouds filled the viewport.

“Y’see, General,” the Twi’lek went on, “this is a safety measure. For boss an’ for ye. Meeting’ll be off-world while the boss conducts a business trip. We’re givin’ ye a—oi, Janca, stop laughin’!” She punched the snickering Duros on the arm. “Givin’ ye a cover story. I mean, we sure don’t want the brave an’ honest General Veers to be caught mixin’ up wi’ the Butcher of Rikuba, eh?”

Veers fell silent. The sweat on his face and under the uniform was freezing as the temperature dropped to space travel averages. Outside the viewport lay blackness, stars, and the knobby smaller moon of Axxila. His heart pounded in its cage and his stomach felt as heavy as if gravity was yanking it back to the planetary surface. “And what would this _cover story_ be?”

The Twi’lek pointed a thumb towards the door. “Ask Truffe. Big Human lad, lots o’ face hair. Eww! But he’s our cover story specialist. He’ll prime you.”

Veers slammed his fist on the door lock and exited the cockpit. “Don’t punch my ship, _D’emperiolo koochoo_!” the Twi’lek snarled behind him.

Veers stepped into the passenger area. A dejarik table occupied precious square meters, and nobody was there. A sealed box lay fixed to the floor with a magnetic stopper. “Truffe?” Veers called. “Truffe, your captain—”

“Yeah, yeah.”

Footsteps thumped down the ladder of a gunnery turret. A big Human lad in grease-stained flight suit, thick blond beard and a mullet ending in a waist-length braid, stared Veers up and down. “Hmm. Imperial biometrics for you are slightly off, mate, didn’t ya notice?”

“W-what?”

Shaking his head, Truffe crouched to unlock the box. “You’re taller than your personal file says. Not much, but a few centimeters do a world of difference.” He slanted another disapproving look at Veers. “Your tunic sleeves are too short, for one. Tailoring isn’t the Empire’s forte. Textile mass production for cheap—”

“How in blazes did you get to read my personal file?”

“Boss bribed someone in the Axxila garrison to download it, I s’pose.” He handed the content of the box to Veers. “Try this one out first.”

Veers looked at the thing. Then at Truffe, then at the thing again. “You’re shitting me.”

“It’s important we get the measures of this one right. We’re landing in twenty standard minutes and if I need to do adjustments, I need to do them fast.”

“I am not wearing this. Don’t you have a Mandalorian armor or something like that? Something… dignified?”

Truffe shrugged. “You can go meet boss in your Imperial general uniform. And face the consequences, when someone recognizes you.”

“Go fuck a blaster cannon, all of you…” Veers tore his cap, gloves and belt off, sat on the bench and pulled out his boots.

“If it makes you feel better,” said Truffe, “the headpiece has a full-face mask. It has anti-scanner scramblers, so there won’t be any way to identify you as long as you’re wearing it.”

“Ah.” Trousers down. “So this is why the rest of me can pretty much go starkers?”

“Pretty much, eh. Good thing you didn’t shave your legs, by the way; you got chest hair, too?”

“I’m a grown man, for fuck’s sake.”

“Eh, ‘twasn’t a criticism. The boss likes his Human men sorta… manly.”

To this mobster tailor’s utter joy, the _thing_ fitted Veers well. Not that there was much to fit for a G-string embroidered loincloth with a shimmersilk flap fluttering down to his knees, but at least the nether strap covered his lower deck artillery without crushing it.

“Good,” said Truffe. “Turn around.”

“If you touch me, I’ll rip off your hand and shove it down your throat.” Veers spun around, offering his bare arse on display just when the cockpit door slid open.

The Twi’lek whistled. “Ohh, I wouldn’t mind targetin’ those afterburners!”

“Let’s move on to the rest,” Veers told Truffe in his coldest business voice, ignoring the woman.

“Okay, tunic and shirt off, please.”

It reassured Veers a bit to notice the care and precision with which the tailor folded his uniform and put it down in the box. A tiny bit, but better than nothing.

The ‘rest’ amounted to a necklace with four or five rows of gems reaching all the way down to his nipples. The gems bore a suspicious resemblance to Kyber crystals. The pattern matched the loincloth embroidery, and that of the mask, which was made of a soft blue velvet.

“Hutt’s bollocks,” said the Twi’lek. “Ever thought ‘bout a career in whoring, greyback?”

 _It appears I’ve started out_. “Do I get any shoes or am I walking in my old boots?”

Truffe fished out of the box a pair of flat-soled, soft-leather ankle boots.

“Blast, man, I hope boss leaves some meat on you. I’d sure fancy chewin’ ya,” the Twi’lek drawled, grinning far too broadly than it was comfortable to a Human.

“Cap’n, we’re outta hyperspace!” the Duros recalled her to the cockpit. Veers breathed a sigh of relief.

“She’s treating you very well, y’know,” Truffe said, “given she’s Ryl and you’re an Imp.”

“Yes, I do appreciate she hasn’t dumped me out of an airlock. Do I have an alias? Or am I just some anonymous pleasure toy for the boss?”

“Aye to the latter. Keep mum all the time and you’ll be fine. Boss’ll take care of everything. Ah, one more thing!” Truffe produced a bottle of sunscreen. Veers recognized it, it was his wife’s favorite brand, high protection for very fair Human skins. “It’s sunny on Abafar,” Truffe explained.

Veers snatched the bottle. “Don’t even think of putting it on me yourself.”

“Eh…? Ahh, nah, no worries, I’m only into droids. ‘scuse me, have to go man the turret. Put the bottle in the box with your stuff after you finish. The box will lock automatically.” Truffe turned one last time before climbing up to the turret, “An’ buckle up! Landing here’s a bit rough.”

The ship did rock and sway for several minutes, but Veers had been through worse; you didn’t know motion sickness until you tried being on an AT-AT ferried by Titan dropships.

At last the ship stopped moving, the rumble of the engines quieted down, and a creak-hiss of mechanisms at the back of the ship signaled the ramp was lowering. The Twi’lek sashayed out of the cockpit and bright sunlight flooded the passenger area from the open door. “Welcome to Abafar, greyback. Were you sick during the landing?”

“Not at all.”

“Pity. Would’ve been a nice payback for your lot killin’ my family an’ sendin’ half of my clan to prison planets. Let’s get goin’, boss is right outside.”

Squinting in the light, Veers noticed she had a blaster gun strapped to each thigh.

“Oi, let’s make a deal.” She waved a finger at him. “You stop lookin’ at my legs, an’ I won’t speak aloud what I’d love to do to your arse.”

He considered apologizing and discarded the idea, like so many times he’d discarded the option of surrender to a Rebel enemy. “Deal.” He pulled the mask down on his face.

She marched him out into a blinding orange light and a dusty, dry heat. Veers didn’t like hot places, but at least this desert wasn’t humid. The mask also had darkened lenses over the eye holes, bathing everything in a slight blueish hue.

A group of sentients, only one of whom wasn’t carrying visible weapons, was standing at the edge of the landing bay. They didn’t cast shadows on the soft sand.

Veers counted a dozen of armed guards between the landing bay and the upper edges of the pit that contained it. Despite the heat and the baking sun, his skin was getting goosebumps.

The unarmed man’s gaze raked him up and down as the Twi’lek brought Veers to stand before him. He was wearing round sunglasses, and a white and golden cape and suit that may or may not be an intentional mockery of an Imperial Navy Grand Admiral’s getup.

“Y’like him, boss?” asked the Twi’lek. You had to wonder if the eagerness in her voice was theatre or genuine concern. Indeed, crime lords such as Jabba the Hutt would feed unsatisfactory cronies to a rancor, but Veers had never heard such stories about Firmus Piett.

“Magnificent,” was the boss’ verdict. His voice was quieter than Veers had imagined. It elicited a very not quiet roar of whistles and physically appreciative noises from the gunmen.

Veers gritted his teeth under the mask and looked Piett dead in the sunglasses. The man held his lensed stare, a faint smirk on his clean-shaven face.

Piett took Veers’ right hand and lifted it to his mouth. The rings on his fingers pressed into Veers’ palm. “Enchanted to meet you.” The gentle kiss he feathered across the back of Veers’ hand, all the way down to a lick between the knuckles, was the polar opposite of the durasteel handhold. Helpless, Veers felt a stir in his lower belly, the loincloth strap fitting a little snugger.

He bowed his head towards Piett, in what he hoped the gunmen would interpret as a simple gesture of submission, and whispered, “Do you know why I’m here?”

“Of course, doll.” With as much grace as if it were a dance step, Piett maneuvered him at his side, hand in hand. “Just be patient while I take care of business first, _cyar’ika_.” He said this to be heard. There was a collective hoot again, and the retinue moved.

Piett paraded out of the landing bay and into the town, a shabby mining settlement like many in the Outer Rim. An advance squad of gunmen preceded them, others surrounded them, others yet followed in the rear; Veers knew they were there because it was an educated guess of his military mind, and because they often offered their loud, lewd, poorly worded in Basic opinions of his bare afterburners. Piett didn’t seem to mind.

In spite of his own pride and courage that imposed him to walk straight and undaunted, Veers inched closer and closer to Piett, holding onto his arm like his life depended on him—which wasn’t wrong: his life, and someone else’s. Piett didn’t seem to mind that excess of physical contact, either.

The mask lenses would darken and blur faces every time Piett and his entourage, and Veers along with them, walked into a building. It didn’t take any stretch of imagination to figure out they were rhydonium refineries, and factories of rhydonium-based weapons. Veers could tell by the machinery noise, although every sentient who came to speak with Piett used Huttese or Mando’a or some other Outer Rim language the crime lord was fluent into, and the Imperial general wasn’t.

Throughout the tour, Piett never let go of him; it was shameful to depend on him, but there was nothing Veers could do about it. As long as he didn’t cave in to feelings of gratitude and wish to please his warden, his honor was safe.

Not that having come here was honorable, to begin with.

Piett also wouldn’t stop toying with Veers’ hand, even while he spoke business gibberish. He would worry Veers’ knuckles with nipping kisses, lap and suck at his fingers, stroke circles on the wrists. Veers found meager relief in not being able to see the bulge that he sensed forming through the revealing shimmersilk. It swelled no matter the turn-off images he strove to conjure up: his family, the war, Eliana’s gravestone, the reason why he was here, the ISB finding out that reason. Under the mask, a few teardrops of powerlessness and frustration crept out of his eyes.

Eleven secret installations inspected later, Piett switched to Basic. They were again in the open street, in front of a cantina whose Aurebesh sign read: _Power Sliders – New management!_ Piett said, “A round of ale for everyone, folks!” The gunmen hurrah-ed. Smiling, Piett waved a hand to make them lower their voices. “Yer not ta bother me while I’m in the back wi’ me doll. So naw brawls, or the next bein’ ye’ll be punchin’ is a strill at the baitin’ pits!”

Hoorays again, and a choir of ‘aye, boss’.

Always pay attention to the surroundings, they’d drilled into Veers’ mind since his cadet days. Nevertheless, the interior of the cantina and the route to the back room passed in a blur, like he’d taken the lenses off and stared for too long into the endless Abafar horizon.

Piett muttered a few words to a Mandalorian who had the air and the weaponry of a security chief, then he led Veers past a doorway and down a flight of steps.

“You may take your mask off, General,” Piett said airily, removing his sunglasses. “Your identity, your eyesight and the privacy of my business activities are all safe here.”

Veers was tempted to be uncooperative and keep the damn mask, though it was difficult to see with it on in the low light. It was just a caprice for the hells of it, to show he still had the power to be a little shit. But he was here for a reason. A mission of his own. He mustn’t jeopardize the mission.

He took the mask off and blinked to refocus his vision. They were in a bunker furnished like a brothel room: king-size bed with silky sheets and far too many pillows, a height-adjustable set of manacles built onto the wall above the bedhead, a nightstand at the side, and at the opposite end of the room a table with food and drinks.

Piett went to pour one. “Would you like some wine? Real Alderaanian has become a bit complicated to find, but Tinnelian reds come pretty close.”

“Water.”

Piett raised an eyebrow, then poured a glass of water and handed it to Veers. “You don’t have to stand awkwardly there, General. The parade’s over. Please have a seat.”

Veers sat down on the edge of the bed. After years in the army and years of not bothering with shore leaves—this one, technically, was his first since long before the battle of Yavin—he’d forgotten that there existed stuff as soft as this mattress in the galaxy. The silk sheets were blissfully cool against his sunburned buttocks.

However, material comforts weren’t going to weaken his will. He sat with his legs closed, tugging at the shimmersilk flap so that it covered as much skin as possible; that wasn’t much.

He took a sip of water, far less than he was thirsty for, watching Piett unclip his cape and hang it to an armchair by the table.

“I’m aware you haven’t been happy with this arrangement.” Piett picked up his wine chalice and rocked it in his hand. “You Coreworlders and your Imperial sense of modesty. But I assure you, this way nobody will suspect—”

“Cut to the chase, Piett. Are you going to bring my son back or not? Or… must I do more?” Veers eyed the bedhead, the pillows and the manacles. His heart thumped and his throat, albeit dry, couldn’t open to let him drink.

“Oh, General, you wish this exchange were that simple.” Piett drank up half of his wine and sat on the armchair. “Don’t take it personally; I’m sure it must be wonderful to pound your superb arse.”

Veers wished he could dissolve into the mattress.

“But… well, contrarily to popular belief, sex doesn’t solve everything.”

“So why this ridiculous slave garb? You could’ve protected my identity with a million other dress-ups, but you decided to humiliate me.” Veers’ voice was raspy, but he didn’t pause to drink. “I have been a good boy and bearing with it. Now, if you fucking gangster don’t mind, fulfil your end of the bargain.”

Piett’s expression had cooled and blanked off, even if a trace of smirk was still there. “Yes. Yes, you have been a good boy. That I acknowledge. That _ridiculous slave garb_ was my fee, General. I thank you for paying it. The problem now is, as you can guess, the Rebels have their own fee.”

“Name it.” Veers chugged the whole glass of water.

“Everything you know about the ground forces of Death Squadron. Everything you know about the ground forces of the whole Empire. Codes, projects, strategic plans—”

“And Lord Vader’s favorite breakfast cereals.”

“Darth Vader _eats_?”

“I am not a traitor to the Empire. I won’t have on my hands the blood of the soldiers they will kill thanks to that intel.”

“Your son was quite keen on becoming a traitor.”

“That’s a private matter!”

“So, if you want so badly to keep your virginity this round, General, may I suggest giving them someone else high up the food chain?” Piett laughed and shook his head. “The chain of command, I meant, sorry.”

Silence.

“A man for a man,” said Piett in a low voice. “That’s a fair price.”

Silence.

“Ozzel,” said Veers at last. “I can give them Admiral Ozzel.”

“Hmm.”

“Come on, that bastard is admiral of Death Squadron and sits in the Joint Chiefs committee.”

“Any chance you could get Vader?”

“Out of the question.” Veers clamped his hands together to halt a growing tremor, the glass held tight between his palms.

“General, General…” Piett sighed. His face, older than it appeared when he was being the self-confident gangster, seemed designed to look galaxy-weary. “My contact in the Rebellion had warned me: you would try to barter Ozzel. It won’t do. They don’t want that old _koochoo_. Yourself or Vader. These are your choices.”

“What if I pick neither and just leave? What if I let my son live with the consequences of his actions and… and let him fight like a man the war he has chosen?” Veers could hear his own voice crack at almost every word. Fuck, this was his fault. He had ruined his own son. If Eliana was watching, she must be cursing the day she’d married him—if she hadn’t already cursed it during his long absences.

A portable holoprojector materialized in the palm of Piett’s hand that wasn’t holding the wine glass. “Pay attention.” He extended it towards Veers and activated it.

The hologram was blurry and recorded from a high angle, but the officer huddled to an invisible floor was Zev, beyond doubt. He was still in his uniform, with the cap and rank badge and even the raincoat, but his boots were gone. “ _Let me out!_ ” Zev croaked. Veers’ heart ground to a stop. Stars, was his voice that hoarse because the recording was bad? Or was he in pain? “ _Let me out! I told you, I wasn’t even on Hoth! I want nothing to do with my father! I—I am one of yours! Please—_ ”

The hologram disappeared. Veers kept staring at the void where that glimpse of Zev had just been.

Piett sighed again. “The Rebels aren’t in a forgiving mood after Hoth. Their High Command is scattered, and the voices of reason have trouble being heard. Your _bukee_ chose a very bad time for defecting, with his loaded name.”

“Are they going to…?”

“They might.”

One slow centimeter at a time, Veers lifted the glass.

 _Think, soldier. Think_. Scenario one: he gave himself in. The Rebellion grilled him for intel, dangled him in front of the Empire in case anyone was so foolish as to cave in to a blackmail, put him on trial for war crimes, killed him. No guarantee they would leave Zev alone.

He drank up the water in two sips, one after another.

Scenario two: he gave them Lord Vader. Fuck, fuck, fuck. How was that even feasible?

“Vader, then,” Veers murmured. The empty glass fell to the floor. It didn’t shatter. Veers pressed his hands to his face and tried to choke back the sobs.

“General,” Piett said after some time.

He held his breath for a few seconds, exhaled it in a huff, and stared up at Piett again. The crime lord was standing close to him and offering a glass of what smelled like Corellian whiskey. Veers took it and drank. It burned down his throat, too much for him to behave like a civilized sentient and thank Piett.

“I understand this isn’t an easy decision. Believe me, General, I do.”

“Spare me your fake compassion. What does Rimworlder criminal scum like you know about honor and treason?”

“Not much about the former, at least the Imperial concept of honor. But, if I may, a bloody lot about the latter.” Piett’s expression turned sad, mournful. Veers wanted to punch it off his face, but held himself in check and listened. “As you well know and despise me for, General, I plotted against my former boss until I seized power for myself. I have no remorse to spare for Verrua the Hutt, but there were employees and associates who stayed loyal to her, beings of great capacities. I was… not pleased to kill them.”

“Right.”

“I know that stab of conscience. If you have an ounce of honor to yourself, it’s never easy to betray someone you respect.”

“And so what? I don’t need your empathy and forgiveness, I don’t want them!”

“Of course. All you need and want is for me to broker between you and the Rebels who hold your son captive.”

“And I want you to keep my son in a safe place once… once they release him.”

“Yes. That favor will have its own price tag, General.”

“What’s that?”

“Not a concern for now.”

“If it’s my arse that you want, you can have it. I’d rather pay forward.” Veers opened his legs, swallowed a lump in his throat, and shifted on the bed to lie down.

“No, General, no.” Piett took the empty whiskey glass, then the water one off the floor, and put them on the table next to the empty wine chalice. “If it is a comfort to you, my refusal isn’t out of pity. I have a hunch you might offer me something more valuable later on.”

“Pirate,” Veers muttered.

“Our deal is sealed for today. I’m sure you’re eager to return to a less uncivilized part of the galaxy?” Piett raised an eyebrow.

“I have five more standard days of leave and I’m not spending them here. Or on Axxila, no offense.”

“Now now, Axxila isn’t too bad anymore.” Piett extended a hand to him. Veers took it, let the man help him to his feet. While Veers put the mask back on and Piett his cape, the latter went on, “Widespread violence and unsafe areas are bad for business. The Empire and I agree on that point.”

“Are you telling me you helped the Empire arrest street thugs so nobody will mind you smuggling rhydonium and spice?”

An unreadable smirk on his face, Piett led him back up the stairs. “When the time is ripe, a comely lass you met on Axxila during your shore leave will send you a nice sweet message. You will meet her or contact her through safe channels, and you will receive your instructions.”

It was hot on this planet, even in a windowless air-conditioned basement. Yet, Veers shivered. By instinct, he also squeezed Piett’s hand; Piett responded by resting his head on Veers’ shoulder. It stirred a tactile memory of Eliana, during their long strolls on the waterfront. In turn, the memory stirred a pang of desire, purely physical and fleeting, in Veers’ barely clothed belly. “I hope it’s not that Twi’lek pilot,” he said to distract himself.

“Poy Kairn? Dear, no. She has killed every single Imperial she’s shagged.”

“And you sent _her_ to pick me up? Does she know who I am?”

“I paid her very well not to kill you.”

The door opened to the cantina. Bad b’ssa nuuvu music was playing. Someone cried out something in Mando’a, Veers picked up the word for ‘boss’. The gunmen rose their tankards, glasses, and sabacc cards, and hollered in salutation. A slimy, non-Human limb slapped Veers’ ass.

Captain Poy Kairn trotted up to the boss from the bar counter.

“Cap’n, fly this _cyar’ika_ back to Axxila, won’t ye?” Piett ordered, running a finger on Veers’ collarbone and along the edge of the necklace.

“Aye, boss!” She grinned at Veers and flashed her gold tooth at him. “Any chance I could take ye on a quick detour to Wild Space, cutie?”

Veers was about to give her the tart answer she deserved, but bit his tongue. _Keep mum all the time and you’ll be fine_. There was no telling how this conglomeration of scum would react to his Core accent. He lowered his head and hunched coyly behind Piett.

The drinking buddies Poy had left at the counter produced a few different species’ range of chortling noises. Poy flipped a middle finger at them, then held up her hands. “’kay, boss, sorry. I promise I won’t even _propose_ to lay a finger on him unless he asks for it.”

“Good. You may go, _cyar’ika_. May the Force an’ old Boonta’s blessin’ be wi’ ye.”

 _The only Force that’s going to be with me is Lord Vader’s. Strangling me_. Veers stepped aside, without letting go of Piett’s hand yet; he raised it to his lips and kissed it through the mask.

“C’mon, _cyar’ika_ , we both got other jobs to do!” Poy pulled him away. She was still grinning. Once they were out of the cantina she said, “Kriff, did boss persuade ye to drop the Impscum an’ take up whorin’ for real?”

“In a sense.”


End file.
